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&quot;If you now feel the need of crying again during your shearing, there’s no need to feel any shame, just let your tears flow freely. After all, as I told you before, it’s almost a certainty that it’s goodbye for ever!&quot; the bald barberette whispered and flipped the clipper’s switch on with her thumb.

&quot;No, please, I think that I love my hair!&quot; I managed to say, when a loud buzzing sinisterly announced that the sharp teeth of the clipper blade had started to move and my hairline would be their target.

&quot;Then it’s time to give it its freedom!&quot; she answered curtly in a bored voice.

&quot;Please Carol; I don’t want to be bald…&quot; I said chokingly and felt tears of fear flowing again into my eyes, while my shave master brushed my hair back from the hairline to the crown and held it there with the brush. Thereafter I started to feel the vibration from the clipper blades at my brow just beneath my hairline.

&quot;Whether you want to be bald or not, isn’t a question anymore!&quot; she said thoughtfully and looked with a sorrowful expression into my eyes full of tears. &quot;The fact is that you are already bald!&quot; she added forcefully and began to push the machine into my hair. Immediately a quiet but noticeable crackling was added to the buzz sound, and I froze in a shock. Was this queer crackling sound really the death cry of my hair, even though I couldn’t feel anything except some light tickling on my scalp? Slowly, very slowly, almost in slow motion, she let the vibrating blades glide along my center part. I wasn’t able to breathe. Was she now really cutting my hair, or was she just testing me? A spark of hope seized me, and I concentrated completely on this strange tickling on my head. Either my barberette was bluffing, or the clipper really was cutting mercilessly through my hair without any noticeable resistance, and was ridding me of my femininity. The last option was completely unthinkable in my fantasy, but I was getting more and more skeptical as I perceived that the unpleasant pull from the hairbrush was diminishing and then disappeared completely, as soon as the vibrating machine reached the crown of my head. The definite and shattering cause of this effect was something that my reason couldn’t and didn’t want to recognize at this moment. Incredulously I glanced curiously at the hairbrush returning into my field of vision, some about two feet long hair strands were clinging to it, and she threw onto the floor by strongly shaking the brush a few times, but to guess where these hairs had come from, was something of what my logic wasn’t capable of achieving at this time. Only after I had started to feel this unusual coolness in the region where my hair parting used to be, was I able to match this sorrowful little heap of dead curls with my former hair, and wanted to cry out aloud. But then the brush was anew pulled through my hair causing that unpleasant traction, which once more diminished gradually as the vibrations from the clipper neared the back of my head. Again some thick hair strands fell onto the floor. Eight, nine or maybe even ten times was this process repeated, and after each stoke this scary coolness on my scalp increased. Weather I wanted to believe it or not — it was now irretrievably over. The slightest chance of continuing with my life as before was over, any hope that the shearing of my hair had just been an elaborate illusion was now over. My baldness had been sealed, one hundred percent. This was something no one and nothing could change anymore. I made this decision and therefore had to bear it to the end. From the radical shearing of my hair to the subsequent shaving and the final polishing of by bald head. &quot;My bald head&quot;, how awfully irrational that sounded in spite of all logic. Yes, when I’m going to leave this room within a short time, and have to go outside, there isn’t going to be one single hair on my head. Was I able to imagine this, even patially?

With a slight pressure to my neck, Carol signaled me to bend my head down. I obeyed her weakly and awaited the next thing that was going to happen. With forceful stokes my hair was brushed from the neck upwards over my bald head and my brow, falling like a velvety smooth curtain in front of my eyes onto my lap. Immediately I felt comfortable warmth on my buzzed head and got the chance of feeling for the last time the wonderful sensation of seemingly having long hair on my head. Evidently, this was just for a few breaths long, because shortly thereafter the now warm blades of the efficient machine touched my neck and started to cut upwards to the crown of my head. And then as the crackling sound ceased and only the clipper’s buzzing remained, the first section of my lustrous black curtain slid down over my denuded head with an unpleasant tickling, first onto my lap and then over the cape onto the floor. One silent &quot;hair avalanche&quot; after the other fell down, until at last Carol came to my side giving me a smile of consolation, in the meantime the unfortunate coolness had extended towards my neck.

&quot;Now just the sides and around your ears, and then you’ll be a pretty bald headed woman.&quot; my shave-master mentioned. As soon as I had leaned my head side wards, as ordered, she brushed my hair back over the ears and guided the clipper backwards starting at my temple, lots of hair strands took leave, by brushing against my right ear, before falling down. There only remained a feeling of coolness and defenselessness, although I have to admit that I really enjoyed the vibration when the hair around my ears was buzzed off. While the hair of my left side was being cut off, I risked a glance at the floor and froze from the shock. Not only because there was such a huge amount of freshly cut hair, but also, because I could recognize in my shadow at the wall, the silhouette of a clearly hairless head. Impossible, this round, hairless and terribly fragile something couldn’t be a woman’s head? Especially not my own head! Inevitably, I nodded carefully, to make sure that it wasn’t an illusion, but when the shadow of this baldhead, followed my movement, the realization hit me like lightning, and all the misfortune of this world seemed to crash onto my psyche. I, the sorrowful bald little heap of misery, which remained of my old self, had to look very horrible. Again, I stared at my solitary garments on the clothes rack and remembered heavy hearted the mirror image of this attractive and longhaired woman, that half an hour before I still could see in the reflection of the subway’s door window. Definite and impossible to undo.

After a silent click, the terrible buzzing ended and Carol took one-step back and admired grinning proudly her memorable &quot;artwork&quot;.

&quot;Have you really shaved me completely bald?!&quot; I stammered with a crying voice and shook my naked and freezing head, in the hope of feeling somewhere a slight sign of my fabulous hair; but up there evidently wasn’t anything that could have been moved by my manipulations. That what had been done, could not be undone.

&quot;You are quite wrong my pretty one!&quot;, Carol scolded rising her finger and then added in a high spirited manner, that so far she had only buzzed off my hair, and that she still had to shave me. The words &quot;buzzed off&quot; and &quot;shave&quot; were still hammering inside my head in the rhythm of my fast beating heart, when Carol already had started to put a lot of heavily scented shaving foam on my maltreated head, while humming happily.

Unable of saying anything, I willingly let her continue. Did it matter anymore? After my barberette had covered all of my head with foam, she dexterously fished her razor out of her barber’s coat and began to sharpen its blade on a leather strap that hung from the wall.

&quot;I will start shaving one side.&quot; spoke Carol and befor
e she could reinforce her words by pressing against my temple I had bend my head side wards, because somehow I wanted to get over this, as soon as possible; go home and hide under my bed covers for the rest of my life. I was overcome by a sensation of pleasure, when the sharp razor blade scraped over my temple. I immediately remembered the woman who had preceded me on this chair some forty-five minutes ago, as well as the erotic pictures of her head shave. She really had looked fantastic with her smoothly shaven head, although I had never seen her with hair and therefore really couldn’t give an objective opinion. How had she looked before? What color had her hair been? Had her hair been short or long?

The wonderful feeling of the razor blade carefully shaving the delicate parts around my ear, brought me back to reality, and I was surprised at how lethargically I was accepting the removal of my femininity. Path after path the razor sent the last vestige of my former fabulous hair into the realm of the absolute oblivion. Less than an hour ago, when I let myself to be leaded too easily into this torture chair, I could feel pride of having hair that was more than two feet long! This dream of any woman, had been burst like a soap bubble by the sharp blade of a professional clipper and reduced to extremely short bristles. Now the pitiful rest was being eliminated with a razor blade. Decades of fussy hair care permanently destroyed by the determined manipulation of the barberette’s skilful hands. There, where silky and fluffy long curls used to be, there was now an unrestrained clearing, starting at my right side, then across my neck, over to the right side and ending at the top of my head. If the former unused coolness on my head had been most uncomfortable, then I had to realize now after the shaving had finished, how ice-cold my shaved head was.

Exhausted form the nervous tension, I looked again at the floor and inspected the hairy battle ground before me in a disinterested manner. Abundant long entangled black strands of my former head decoration were lying on the austere white tiled floor and testified of the deadly fight they had lost, the transience of all earthly beings. How awfully relative here everything was. A short time ago it still had been the wonderful and silky splendor, the desirable feminine magic of its proud bearer; and now not much more than a large heap of unruly and useless trash. Between my sorrowful philosophical contemplations, Carol’s graceful legs appeared, sunk up to her ankles in the shorn hair. The soft leather of her austere slippers was so covered with hair that her slim feet looked like two hairy paws.

&quot;Yes, as I had feared, we still aren’t ready and I have to apply chemical hair remover on your scalp, before the final polish!&quot; chatted my tormentor bringing me back to reality. What more would I have to endure? Chemical?

&quot;Oh no, there’s nothing to be afraid of!&quot; spoke Carol with a friendly giggle, as she noticed my concerned expression, and started to explain fully. Your hair’s not only very strong and thick, but also of a very intensive color down to the roots, and because of this, even after a perfectly smooth shaving, there remains an unsightly black shadow on your scalp, which would spoil the perfection of your baldness. However, this problem can easily be removed with the use of a special depilatory cream, which has the additional advantage, that any slight re-growth will be rigorously stopped for at least one week.

&quot;In this way you’ll save yourself the time of having to come every three to four days for a re-shaving, like many of my clients. So about once a week for a prophylactic after treatment should be enough!&quot; she spoke in a euphoric tone of voice, took a pot and applied with a spatula a generous amount of a rather bad smelling ointment on my bald scalp. After she had distributed the cool sticky mass with her fingers, so that there was a uniform cap on my head, she pulled up a chair and sat in front of me.

&quot;We can use the time that the stuff on your head needs to do its effect, for making the necessary corrections to your face!&quot; Carol announced full of urge to apply her talent, and already had a small strange object in her hand, which she introduced as a small battery shaver.

&quot;Your bushy eyebrows are way too dominant and have to disappear completely!&quot;, sounded her introductory words and before I even would have been able to protest, the ominous plastic appliance started to buzz and started shaving off the hairs of my right eyebrow, they fell onto the barber cape.

&quot;That’s what I feared&quot;, groaned my confident beautician slightly irritated, and explained while she removed the other eyebrow, that here too, in order to achieve a perfect result she would have to use the hair remover. However, even that wasn’t enough for her, because as soon as she had spread the smelly ointment on the remaining vestige of my eyebrows, she criticized the length of my typically Italian eyelashes that now due to my complete baldness wouldn’t fit my new image.

After a short command, &quot;Eyes closed!&quot; I heard a buzzing; an enormously ticklish vibration of my right eyelashes, and the magic was over. After a short professional inspection, the delicate hairs of my left eye too, were trimmed to a length of 1/8&quot;, which she claimed was the maximal appropriate length for modern bald women.

Some fifteen minutes later, my scalp started to itch tremendously. After the shaving, I had secretly complained about the coolness of my scalp, now it seemed as if someone had lighted a small camping fire up there. Before I mentioned anything, my shave-master looked at her watch, fetched a pan with lukewarm water, and placed it beside me on a small shelf. With a soft plastic spatula, she proceeded to free my burning scalp from the bad smelling paste. She followed the same order as with the shaving, first one side, then the neck, then the other side and finally the top of my head. The only difference was that at the end, she also removed the ointment on my former eyebrows with some skilled flicks of her wrist.

&quot;In a moment we’ll have finished and then there’ll be the great moment when you can inspect your new easy to maintain and always slick hairstyle!&quot; she jokingly said in a high spirited voice, but I couldn’t share her strange humor with which she designated the smooth wasteland on my head as a hair style. The fear of the unavoidable confrontation with reality was constantly increasing. Although, the logical part of my mind had experienced each and every phase of the hair removal at skin level. I knew that all the hair lying around on the floor had been removed at scalp level from my head, in my fantasy and my memories I still looked like when I had entered this unfortunate shop today in the afternoon; feminine, delicate and with an extremely long and fabulous pitch-black mane.

Carol reduced my fears a little by applying the final polish on my newly shaven head, a very pleasant smelling oil with a relieving massage on my still somewhat irritated scalp. Not only did this loving treatment relieve me soon of any pain remaining from the hair remover, but also for the first time I was able to experience how wonderful such a silky smooth bald head felt. It was such a fantastic feeling, that I can’t describe it. Now I could unrestrictedly imagine why the client before me had almost purred like a cat when I was allowed to apply this luxury treatment on her head. Over all the euphoria of my thoughts, a gloomy shadow was cast. What if Carol was right in the statistics she mentioned; that almost no bald woman is able to grow out her hair, because the baldness is like an incurable addiction?

Was it possible that one got addicted and would have the obsession of continuing the rest of one’s existence, hair free and smoothly shaven? Although this seemed rather hard to beli
eve to my logical mind, I felt a fearful tingle in the region of my stomach, because doubtlessly she also had been correct, at least in my case with her &quot;baldness bug&quot;. I shuddered and in this second, I started to miss more than ever my fabulous hair, which now was lying so lifelessly on the tiled floor.

&quot;You can be proud of yourself!&quot; Carol interrupted my broodings about the future and gently stroked my denuded temple.

&quot;Your perfect head shape, your ears so close to the head and your pretty face, are simply perfect; and when I say perfect, I really mean it! It really is a shame that you were hiding all this beauty for so many decades under this crazy hair curtain.&quot; she continued to reprimand me, and again sat in front of me, now with a small make-up case. Carefully and precisely she substituted my former eyebrows with very thin and perfectly placed lines, and then she applied some rouge in decent tones as well as some shadow on my eyelids, before taking again her mini-shaver with some shaking of her head and removing an additional 32nd of an inch from my already very short eyelashes.

&quot;In the shortness is the flavor!&quot; she chatted after finishing with the trimming and raised ceremoniously to take the barber cape off and its strangling collar. There I was sitting in the large barber chair, completely uncovered and frail; dressed only in panties, brassiere and a pair of shabby guest slippers. However, compared to my head, my body still was well served in its semi-undressed state, because above my shoulders there was completely unadorned, the absolute and complete nudity. When I came to this conclusion, my tears began to flow anew.

How would I cope with the sight of my baldness? Would I be able to cope with it? Dammed shit, never before in my life had I felt such a fear, as now.

&quot;OK. Then I won’t prolong the suspense any more!&quot; Carol chatted and advised me that to increase the visual effect I should close my eyes. As usual, I obeyed without protesting, and then I was already feeling how the chair was turning. The intensity of the diffuse light that managed to get through my eyelids was increasing, my short spin ended and the chair’s fixture locked into position with a loud click.

Less than five feet in front of me, I would be able to see a mirror; a mirror in which I would see the strange picture of a strange, shy, frightened and completely hairless creature. My heart began to beat faster and I simply was unable to open my eyes to look into the face of reality. Somehow, it seemed to me that in the instant that I saw my maiden baldness for the first time, I definitely would have to loose my fabulous hair. I was perfectly aware that this just was a pitiful fallacy, but sometimes the simple daydreaming of a poor soul could provide some consolation.

There I sat with firmly closed eyes before the mirror for what seemed to me half an eternity, getting more nervous with each breath and was really glad that Carol was showing complete understanding, because she simply stayed silent and so implied wordlessly, that I could take all the time I needed for this difficult undertaking. Confuse fragments of thoughts and images flitted through the chaos of my mind and just didn’t give me the courage for ending this matter. At some moments I still could feel the smoothness of my hair against my cheeks, neck and on my shoulders, then again the clipper’s monotonous buzz and the sharp razor blade scraping on my scalp. At other moments, I could hear the erotic rustle of my just lovingly styled hair, then again the slight cracking sound of the voracious and sharp clipper’s teeth eating through my hair and the final scraping of the razor blade.

In a touch of the most absolute helplessness, I raised my right hand and instinctively wanted to touch some thick hair strands at about the height between my breast and shoulders; but it was in vain. Even when I could touch my throat with my fingertips, I wasn’t able to touch one single lock of my hair; just uncovered nude, skin. Before I allowed my hand to slide further back toward my neck, I retrieved it and covered my eyes. I couldn’t remain any longer in this uncertainty over my aspect and had to act. After taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes and saw the darkness under my hand. Then, very slowly, I began to raise this optical barrier between my reflection in the mirror and my eyes and paused again and again, so that I could gain new courage.

First, I saw the small shelf on which there were some pots with different substances, the small make-up case and the haircutting machine, before I finally could see the lower edge of the mirror; and then I recognized my white brassiere. Gradually this partial image increased, and I saw my shoulders. Even though everything seemed to be anatomically unchanged, the fact was, that my collarbone, as well as ointment my shoulders were completely barren of the usual long black hair strands, it was the first sign of the imminent disaster.

A deep breath and the curtain rose further. Slender and fragile my throat grew into the increasingly strange puzzle of my reflection in the mirror, and when I had reached my chin and I still could not see any single hair, I turned my head slightly to try to get a glimpse of my neck and the shadow of an assumed pony tail; nothing, absolutely nothing. Only the mirror smooth hairless sculpture of my neck. Any chance of further self-deception was diminishing quickly. With each little bit of my face that now became visible, the contrast to the way I remembered myself, was rising. That what had started so familiar was now quickly slipping away into a frightening strangeness.

So far, I only had uncovered my image until the height of my nose tip. Unbelievingly I glanced between my ears whose lower half had become visible and turned my head carefully from left to right. Just the sharp contour of a completely denuded neck and the soft pink of two bare earlobes. I tried to swallow the thick lump that seemed to be stuck in my throat, but I couldn’t. After I had risen my trembling hand a little bit further, I saw in addition to my tear stained eyes, both ears unprotected and completely free from surrounding hair, alone in the smooth nothingness, I couldn’t negate my baldness any longer, not even in the most flourishing fantasy and so I let my hand slide upwards over my brow.

I couldn’t say what hit me harder in this second of truth, the first horribly irrational touching of the silky smooth and hairless scalp, or the uncovered sight of this strange bald creature that stared at me from inside the mirror so pitiful, desperately grasping for air and moaning in a low voice &quot;No, please don’t, please, please don’t&quot;. Without having another try at beginning to accept the reality even partially, I tried to get up, but as soon as the soft soles of the slippers touched the floor, my weak legs gave up and I fell again into the char, almost fainting. There I buried this horrible strange face in my hands, and after a scream of pain, I started to sob loudly.

Yes, this bitter weeping of the first pain of loss and all those uncountable ones later during the several months of the adjustment period, are long over, but this indescribable explosion of my emotional tension, through which I passed at that time, or rather had to, is engraved in my memory until today.

As I feared just after the shaving, I never was able to grow out my once so lovely hair, not even a 32nd of an inch. And this even though I started to cry after each hair removal session at the beginning of my hairless era, and then after the incredible sensation of touching the freshly shaved scalp I had promised myself that I never again would prevent the growth of my hair. But having a mirror smooth bald head released an addiction, which had been dormant and unnoticed in my psyche, and could not be overcome anymore after its unexpected outbreak.

Fortunately I t
hen somehow I managed to get over this nerve-racking phase of my inner turmoil and to make peace with myself and with my invincible urge. After that by the unconditional acceptance of my unchanging baldness, my ego won so much confidence and self-esteem, that shortly thereafter I was able to high intellectual flights, not only in my job, but also privately. Yes, Carol’s freedom of mind forecasts had also become true. Nowadays I am a division manager at a large marketing company and live with a partner who has absolutely no problem with my rigorous baldness; with exception of a small slip during the last fall, which I forgave easily.

At that time during a joint leafing through our photo albums, he had seen some pictures of me in which I had proudly exhibited my very long black mane. As it was bound to happen, he begged me to let my hair grow during the winter, so that he at least could get an idea of how I would look nowadays with hair. Torn between common sense and love I had become weak and had agreed to his desire, as some kind of a Christmas present. Then after having waited patiently for three full weeks there had only grown a colorless fringe of down on my head, probably as a consequence of having been applying hair remover during several years, he gave up and allowed me to get this depressing something shaved off my head.

Even though from a purely theoretical point of view, the fact that from now on I would never be able to have hair on my head doubtlessly had put me in a somehow blue mood. However, at the end I was relieved that now I finally would be, as I really wanted to be; and this would be to the end of my days.

The true reason I remembered this episode of my life, is that today in the afternoon I was confronted again by the mysterious &quot;baldness bug&quot;.

I was sitting in a restaurant reading the movie program for the weekend, when I suddenly somehow felt that I was being observed, I looked up from my newspaper and my eyes locked for the fraction of a second into two big grey eyes of a girl. Although my about twenty-year-old observer immediately looked timidly down, it was too late for her, or rather her extremely long curls. There was no doubt, she had got infected with the desire of imitating my baldness, just by looking at my hairless head, and now she was pulling at her thick hair strands, trying to clear her mind from such seemingly crazy thoughts.

&quot;Poor thing&quot; I thought smiling, while I eyed her more than two feet long thick dark red tresses. For how long would they be allowed to decorate her head playfully; for one; two; or with extreme stubbornness even three weeks? Nevertheless, that really was completely irrelevant. The fact was that her fabulous hair would soon fall to the floor and disappear from her life forever.

&quot;That what’s awaiting you in the next weeks and months, surely won’t be easy to overcome, but trust me, at the end you won’t regret your decision!&quot; I said quietly as I left Carol’s business card on the table in front of her and I couldn’t resist the temptation, to stoke her hair once, quickly and carefully. Because after all it would soon be cut off, at scalp level, and lie lifelessly on the cold tiled floor, finding its ultimate destiny.